Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You and Bucky met in a way that was fitting for the kind of people you were—ordinary, unplanned, and a little chaotic. It wasn’t some fairytale moment, no dramatic meet-cute in a coffee shop or love-at-first-sight nonsense. It was just life happening.

You met at a mutual friend’s wedding party, both of you reluctant attendees who got stuck in an awkward group conversation that neither of you wanted to be part of. You bonded over shared exasperation, dry humor, and a mutual escape plan that involved slipping out early and grabbing late-night burgers at a rundown diner.

That one night turned into a string of casual meet-ups, which turned into something more serious before either of you even realized it. Bucky was steady and loyal in ways you didn’t expect, and he made it easy to fall into a rhythm with him. He wasn’t flashy with romance, but he remembered the little things—how you took your fries with extra salt, the way you hated when people walked too slow in front of you, the songs you hummed under your breath when you were lost in thought. Dates followed, then late-night conversations where you talked about everything and nothing. He made you feel safe, seen, like you were finally with someone who got you.

You fit into each other’s lives seamlessly. He kept an extra jacket in his truck because you were always cold. You learned how he liked his coffee, even though he insisted he’d drink anything. He let you steal his hoodies, and you let him keep his vinyl records scattered around the apartment, even though they took up too much space.

Two years into dating, Bucky proposed in the simplest, most him way—no grand gesture, no flash mobs, just a quiet moment at home, a ring hidden between the pages of your favorite book. And you had said yes without hesitation.

Marriage was good. For a while, it was easy. You built a life together—late-night grocery runs, lazy Sunday mornings, inside jokes whispered between you in crowded rooms. The small, quiet kind of love that didn’t need grand gestures to be real. You bought a house, planned your future, and when you found out you were expecting twins, it only felt like another adventure you’d take on side by side. Bucky was a devoted father from the moment Amelia and Emma were born. You thought you had it all. But it didn’t last.

And then life happened. Work stress, exhaustion, the weight of responsibility creeping in like a slow-moving storm. You had Amelia and Emma, and suddenly, everything revolved around them—feedings, school, doctor appointments, sleepless nights. The love was still there, but the time wasn’t. The loving conversations turned into checklists, the laughter faded into exhaustion, and before you even realized it, you had become two people trying to hold onto something that kept slipping through your fingers. The fights were never explosive, never cruel, but they were full of quiet disappointments, of things left unsaid. And then, one day, you both realized you weren’t fighting for each other anymore.

The divorce had been messy—not in a dramatic, screaming-match kind of way, but in the quiet, heart-wrenching way that hurt the most. Because you still cared. Because there was still love, but not the kind that could fix what had broken.

You and Bucky had parted ways three years ago, when Amelia and Emma were six, agreeing to share custody of your twin daughters. The split had been civil, respectful, but that was almost worse. There had been no villain, no betrayal—just the slow unraveling of something that had once felt unshakable. Now, you co-parented like professionals—efficient, friendly, keeping everything running smoothly. But that was the problem. Everything had become too professional. There were no late-night talks anymore, no stolen glances across the room that meant something more, no moments where you remembered just how much you cared. It was all about logistics, schedules, and making sure everything was fine for the kids.

They were nine now, old enough to sense the tension in the air, even if it was never spoken out loud. They had witnessed your marriage and the quiet unraveling of it, felt the shift in the way you and Bucky communicated, and now they were doing what kids do best—demanding more. More family moments, more time together, more something that felt like a whole family. It was their way of trying to bring some magic back, even if they didn’t know exactly how.

The girls, however, had a different idea.

The clock on your kitchen wall read 7:42 PM, and the house had settled into that peaceful hum it always did after dinner. The faint smell of garlic and butter lingered in the air, the remnants of the pasta you’d made earlier still stacked in the sink, waiting to be dealt with. The soft glow of the overhead lights bathed the room in warmth, making the kitchen feel like a cozy little haven against the chilly evening outside.

At the dining table, you sat cross-legged in one of the chairs, a notebook open in front of you. Your pen tapped absently against the lined pages. 

“Alright, birthday planners,” you said, pulling yourself out of your thoughts and forcing a smile, giving them your full attention. “It’s T-minus one week until the big day. Let’s talk plans.”

Across from you, Amelia and Emma sat with matching grins, elbows propped up on the table, practically bouncing in their seats. They were full of excitement, their eyes wide with anticipation for their upcoming birthday party, the day that was meant to be all about them.

You’d hoped tonight would be lighthearted, but as much as you tried to focus on your daughters’ excitement, a weight lingered. It wasn’t just the stress of planning another birthday party—it was the fact that Bucky, working overtime, was absent yet again. It was your week with the twins, and while you loved them, it felt like you were carrying everything alone, navigating a life that felt more separate than it used to.

Emma gasped, throwing her hands up in the air. “The tyranny is finally over!”

You chuckled. “Oh, right. Because last year’s party with the princess-themed mix and Bubble World was sooo terrible. I think you’ll survive.”

“Barely,” Emma deadpanned, causing Amelia to burst into giggles.

You smirked, flipping to a fresh page in your notebook. “So, what’s the verdict? Backyard party? Movie night? Pizza party? Something low-key?”

Both girls exchanged a glance—one of those silent twin communications you’d learned to recognize over the years—before turning back to you with matching, mischievous smiles.

Amelia leaned forward first. “Actually… we were thinking something big this year.”

Emma nodded. “Like, bigger than big.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds… expensive.”

“We want to go to Area 53,” Amelia declared, practically bouncing in her seat.

“The one with the go-karts, laser tag, and the giant trampoline park,” Emma added, eyes sparkling with excitement.

You blinked. “Oh, here we go.”

Amelia and Emma nodded eagerly, grinning like little con artists who knew they had you cornered.

You sighed, shaking your head with a small smile. “And here I thought you were going to suggest something easy. Like, I don’t know, a movie night at home.”

“Mom,” Emma said, reaching across the table to pat your hand sympathetically. “Let’s be serious.”

You huffed out a laugh. Of course.

Area 53 was a massive indoor amusement park with everything from high-speed go-karts to an expansive trampoline park, laser tag arenas, and an arcade. They had gone to a friend’s party there two years ago, and ever since, it had been the gold standard of birthdays. Even when Bucky had dropped them off at your place that night, they had talked nonstop about every thrilling moment.

You sighed dramatically, tapping your pen against the notebook. “Alright. Area 53 it is. You two have expensive taste.”

Amelia beamed. “You only turn ten once.”

Emma nodded sagely. “It’s a milestone.”

You smirked. “And milestones come with extra chores. Dishes. Two weeks. Plus your dad’s house..”

The twins groaned but didn’t argue.

“Alright, food,” you continued, jotting down notes. “I’m assuming pizza is a given?”

“Obviously,” they chorused.

“What about snacks? Popcorn? Cotton candy?” Amelia asked, flipping through party ideas on your iPad.

Emma gasped. “Ooh! Can we get one of those chocolate fountains?”

You arched a brow. “Are you planning a birthday party or a wedding?”

Amelia shrugged. “A little of both.”

You smirked but kept writing. “Alright, food. I’m assuming pizza is a given?”

“Obviously,” they chorused.

“What about snacks? Popcorn? Cotton candy?” Amelia asked, her voice bubbling with excitement as she flipped through the party ideas on your iPad.

Emma grinned, leaning forward. “Oh, definitely! But we also need candy. Like, gummy worms, jelly beans, Skittles, and Reese’s cups. And maybe some sour belts—those are always fun.”

Amelia nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, and we can’t forget the M&Ms! And Swedish Fish. Those are the best!”

“And the candy corn!” Emma chimed in. “We always get that for Halloween, but it’s great for parties too.” 

You laughed, writing it down. “Fine, but if you two end up in a sugar coma, it’s not my fault.”

Amelia waved a hand dismissively. “We’ll be fine.”

You shook your head but smiled as you moved on to the next section. “Okay, guest list. Who are we inviting? Your school friends?”

The girls nodded eagerly, rattling off names.

“What about neighborhood kids?”

Another round of nods.

You kept writing, mentally tallying how many kids you’d be responsible for. “And, of course, we’ll invite Uncle Steve, Aunt Wanda, Uncle Sam… and Wanda. And don’t even start with Uncle Tony—he’s not getting you those ponies. I’ve already made that clear. And, of course, there’s your dad—“

But you felt the air shift at the mention of his name, just slightly.

It wasn’t enough for anyone else to notice, but as their mom, you caught it instantly—the way Amelia suddenly started fiddling with her bracelet, the way Emma’s gaze flickered over to her sister. You felt the subtle tension in the room, the quiet, almost imperceptible shift. The kitchen, once so warm and familiar, suddenly felt smaller, as if the walls were closing in just a little. The tick of the clock on the wall seemed louder now, a steady pulse against the silence between you.

You’d spent enough years with them to know when something wasn’t quite right. “Okay…” you drawled, eyeing them suspiciously. “What’s with the secret twin telepathy?”

Emma’s lips pursed, like she was holding back a smile, but there was something else there, something you couldn’t quite place. “Nothing.”

Amelia, however, was a terrible liar. Her cheeks flushed as she met your gaze, eyes darting to Emma for reassurance, and that nervous little habit told you everything you needed to know.

You arched a brow. “Uh-huh. I know that look. Spill it.”

The girls hesitated, then exchanged one more glance before Amelia sighed dramatically, as if burdened with a great secret.

“Well…” she started, dragging out the word. “There’s one more person we want to invite.”

You blinked, glancing up from your notepad, a faint unease settling in your chest. “Okay?”

Emma kicked her feet under the table, voice all faux casual, but there was an edge to it, a thin layer of tension beneath her words. “Just… Dad’s lady friend.”

The pen in your hand stilled, frozen midair.

You hadn’t expected that.

The words landed in your stomach like a heavy stone, and for a moment, the room seemed too quiet. The warmth of the kitchen—the familiar hum of the refrigerator, the soft glow of the lights—suddenly felt a little too much. The air was thick, pressing in around you, making it hard to breathe.

Your stomach twisted, but you kept your face neutral—years of practice had taught you how to mask your emotions. You drew in a slow breath, steadying yourself before forcing out the question you weren’t sure you wanted the answer to.

“Dad’s what?”

Amelia and Emma both flinched. They exchanged another quick glance, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

Your pen tapped against the notebook—once, twice—but the sound felt different now. Sharp. Too loud. You tried to read their faces, but they gave you nothing. The kitchen, once so familiar and comforting, suddenly felt smaller.

The clock ticked on, steady and relentless.

Dad’s lady friend?

Your mind raced. Was this something new? Something casual? Had Bucky moved on—really moved on? Was it serious? Had the girls known about this longer than you had?

Amelia hesitated, then blurted out, “It’s just… His lady friend. You know… the one he’s been spending a lot of time with lately.”

Emma’s feet stopped tapping under the table. She looked up at you, wide-eyed. The room was too still. Too quiet.

Your heart did something strange in your chest.

Bucky hadn’t mentioned anything about seeing someone. Not a word. He’d always been open with you—hadn’t he? The silence between you had stretched longer over the years, sure, but this? This was a whole new kind of distance.

How long had this been going on?

You swallowed against the unexpected tightness in your throat. It was like a knot, wound too tight, threatening to cut off your air supply. The walls of the kitchen, which had always been a refuge, suddenly felt too close. Too small. You crossed your arms instinctively, as if holding yourself together, bracing against the sudden chill that wasn’t really there.

And, okay, technically, Bucky didn’t owe you an explanation. You’d both moved on. You knew that. You had to.

But still.

Hearing about it like this? From them?

It was like hearing a song you used to love, only to realize it was blaring from someone else’s phone. It just didn’t feel like yours anymore.

When did this happen?

You tapped your pen against the paper again, the sound sharp in the silence. “Oh,” you said, trying to keep your voice light, but it came out brittle, shaky. “I didn’t realize your dad was dating.”

For a moment, the twins hesitated, almost as if they were gauging your reaction. Then—

Emma grinned. “Oh, yeah. She’s so pretty.”

Amelia nodded eagerly. “And nice! And funny!”

Emma added, “And she totally laughs at all his jokes.”

Something in your chest ached.

You let out a short laugh, more out of disbelief than amusement. His jokes?

“Your dad isn’t that funny.”

Okay, was that petty? Probably.

But Bucky was the kind of guy who laughed at his own jokes, the kind of guy who wore sweaters that were too big and had an unironic appreciation for eighties movies. The kind of guy who would sneakily slip chopsticks into his mouth, clap his hands, and pretend to be a walrus just to make the girls laugh.

You felt a rush of warmth at the memory, a flicker of something dangerously close to fondness. Okay, maybe he was a little funny.

But then, just as quickly, warmth turned to something else—something sharper.

It wasn’t the idea of him dating that got to you. It wasn’t even that he had moved on. It was the little things. The thought that she found him funny in that way, the way someone did when they were really listening, when they were charmed. That she got to see him like that—the way you once had.

A quiet ache settled in your chest.

Emma giggled, and for a fleeting moment, you almost let yourself relax. Almost. But the knot in your stomach didn’t go away. It was still there, coiled tight, squeezing the breath out of you.

The girls didn’t seem to notice. They were too caught up in their excitement, talking about Bucky’s lady friend like she was already part of the family.

“She also makes good cookies!” Emma chirped.

You barely had time to process that before she added, almost as an afterthought—

“Oh! And she helped me with my science project last week.”

Cookies? Science project? What’s next? Christmas cards? You gave a small, forced smile, nodding in acknowledgment. 

It wasn’t as if you minded Bucky moving on, not really, but it still felt like a lot all at once. It felt like they were moving on without you. 

You watched them, how their faces lit up talking about her. About her—Bucky’s “lady friend.” It was like you were standing outside of this new world, trying to make sense of something that didn’t quite fit with the one you had known. Your daughters, so happy to share this new chapter of their dad’s life with you, and yet it felt like they were pulling you along, pushing you into a reality you weren’t quite ready for.

It wasn’t that I’m against Bucky moving on, you thought, but the words felt hollow, like you were trying to convince yourself. You’ve known for a while that he would someday. The man is handsome—rugged in that effortless way, with sharp blue eyes, a jawline that could cut glass, and that damn beard that used to drive you crazy. He works at one of the most important tech companies in New York under Stark himself—and, of course, someone was bound to come along eventually. It was inevitable.

But hearing about it this way, from Amelia and Emma, made it real in a way you weren’t prepared for. You thought you had been okay with the separation, with everything that came after. 

But this… this caught you off guard.

You leaned back in your chair, the hard edge digging into your back, trying to find something solid to hold onto. This is silly. It’s just a girlfriend. It’s just someone he’s dating. It’s not a big deal. But the voice in your head felt far away, like it didn’t belong to you.

“Well,” you said, your voice still a little too tight, “I’m glad he found someone who makes him laugh.” The words came out like they were someone else’s, floating on a distant fog. They didn’t feel like they belonged to you. This isn’t you. Why does it hurt so much?

Amelia looked at you, brow furrowing. “Mom, are you okay?”

Emma leaned forward, eyes softening too, though there was no mistaking the concern in her gaze. “Yeah, you look kind of… weird. Is it weird for you?”

The weight of their eyes on you sent a small shiver through your spine. Did they see? Have they already figured it out?

You blinked, trying to hold it together. 

They were too perceptive. Too close. You quickly lifted your hands in a shrug, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “No, no. Just… surprised,” you said, the words tumbling out too quickly. You almost could’ve laughed at how fake they sounded, but the pressure on your chest felt too real.

You wondered briefly if they noticed how you seemed to shrink back each time they mentioned her name. Did they understand how it stung? Or had they already accepted it as just… normal? Was it normal?

You smiled, the reflex of years of practice still there. But it wasn’t the same smile. It felt too strained, too thin. When did everything change?

“So…” you asked, trying to sound casual, though the words almost stuck in your throat, “What’s, uh, you know. What’s her name?”

Amelia’s lips parted, then pressed tightly together. Emma’s eyes widened slightly, and you knew they were both avoiding your gaze now. There was a long pause, just enough for the air to feel heavy. They shifted uncomfortably in their seats, as if the question had caught them off guard. 

Finally, Amelia cleared her throat, her voice quick and a little too high-pitched. “Uhh… Gail,” she said, the name tumbling out like a reluctant confession.

Emma bit her lip, her gaze darting briefly to Amelia, then back to you. “Yeah, Gail,” she echoed, her voice softer now, as if she too sensed.

You blinked, the name feeling foreign, a weight on your tongue. “Gail?” You repeated, as if testing the name for truth. For reality.

Amelia cleared her throat, but the unease in the air only thickened. “Yep. Gail.”

You leaned back, arms crossing defensively over your chest. 

Both girls exchanged another glance, and this time, the silence was heavy. Did they know something they weren’t telling me?

“Yeah,” Amelia said finally, her voice a little too bright, a little too rushed. “Gail. We met her at Dad’s place last weekend.”

Emma nodded eagerly. “She was really nice, and we watched movies. She even made popcorn with extra butter. It was the best.”

You pressed your lips together, your thoughts scrambling. You have no right to feel like this. No right to feel threatened, to feel hurt. He’s moved on. He has a right to move on. But hearing about her—how easily she had slipped into their routine—made something inside of you twist. Wasn’t I supposed to know?

You looked at them, the laughter in their voices making you feel like a stranger in your own life. They were so casual, so unaffected. You couldn’t help the sharp edge that crept into your voice as you asked, “So, is she, like, serious about Dad?”

Emma’s face softened, and she bit her lip, almost like she was choosing her words carefully. “He doesn’t talk about that,” she said quietly. “But… she’s nice.”

Nice. The word felt so hollow in the air, like it couldn’t possibly cover the weight of what you were feeling.

“Nice,” you repeated softly, nodding mechanically. “I hope she can make it.”

Amelia giggled. “Oh, she definitely will.”

You hummed an absent reply, the chatter around you blurring into white noise. What am I supposed to do with this? 

You forced yourself to nod, to smile, at everything they said back. but it felt like a mask. A stranger’s face, slipping further from your own. You glanced at them, these bright, hopeful girls who were so excited about their upcoming birthday. And you wondered—was this just part of the process? Was this how it was supposed to feel?

As they continued to make plans for the party, your mind spiraled. It wasn’t just about the party anymore. It was about everything that had shifted, the ground that felt unstable beneath your feet. You didn’t know where you fit in anymore. But you had to keep going. For them. You had to. You just didn’t know how.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Bucky’s house was quiet, except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant sounds of the TV. The low light from the kitchen cast a warm, cozy glow, making everything feel more comfortable. The kitchen table was cluttered with the remnants of their dinner—takeout from the Chinese place down the street. The greasy containers still held half-eaten bits of fried rice, lo mein, and dumplings, while crumpled napkins lay discarded around the table, a sign of their hasty, hunger-driven feast.

It had been one of those weeks—a busy, chaotic, non-stop sort of week. Between work, the constant demands of the girls, and everything else life had thrown his way, Bucky was running on empty. By the time Friday night rolled around, he could barely summon the energy to lift a spoon, let alone cook a full meal.

The twins, of course, had known exactly how to push his buttons. They’d been relentless in their attempts to get him to order takeout. They’d seen the weariness in his eyes and jumped on it, reminding him of their “tradition” of Chinese food after every long week. By the time they’d worn him down, there hadn’t been much left in him to argue.

So, he caved. The smell of greasy fried rice and dumplings had filled the house as the twins’ laughter echoed through the rooms, and for a moment, everything felt almost normal again. Almost… happy.

Bucky moved around the kitchen, mindlessly cleaning up the mess. He stacked the containers, tossing a few napkins into the trash, while others were left scattered across the table. The faint smell of soy sauce and fried food lingered in the air, but it wasn’t unpleasant. It was the smell of what-so-called family dinner. 

He didn’t mind it. Not really. It was easier this way, less effort. No need to wrestle with pans and pots when the comfort of takeout was right there in front of him. But there was a twinge of something—a faint regret—that lingered in the back of his mind. It wasn’t that he hadn’t enjoyed their time together. It was just that he wasn’t used to feeling so… tired.

Bucky let out a long, slow breath as he wiped down the counter, pushing the plates aside. The girls were already lounging on the couch, their faces illuminated by the TV screen showing one of those ridiculous girl-power cartoons that Bucky never really understood.

The soft clink of his beer bottle against the counter pulled him back to the present. He hadn’t meant to grab one, but the familiar motion helped anchor him. He walked over to the couch and settled between the girls. Amelia pulled her legs up, and he gently guided them onto his lap. Emma, already leaning against him, tucked her head into his shoulder, her hand slipping around his waist as she got comfortable. Bucky draped a nearby blanket over them both, sinking into the cushions as the warmth of the room seemed to settle in around them.

It felt good, this quiet time together, as though the world outside could wait. There was something reassuring about having the girls with him, something that settled the usual restlessness he couldn’t shake.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence. “Did you two get your mom to agree to the amusement park?” The footsteps grew louder as the sound of someone approaching filled the space.

“Bribery,” Emma corrected, glancing at her sister with a smirk. “We promised to do dishes for two weeks.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, leaning back in his seat. “Suckers. She would’ve caved for free.”

Amelia’s face fell slightly. “Wait—what?”

Emma shot her sister an incredulous look. “Are you saying we didn’t have to do that?”

“Pretty much,” Bucky teased, leaning back in his seat, feeling a little lighter now. 

The twins groaned, and Bucky chuckled, savoring the warmth of their laughter in the room. 

Alright, alright. So, what’s the plan? What am I walking into?” Bucky asked, his voice shifting into that familiar dad-mode of indulgence. He was still getting used to moments like this—quiet, normal, filled with the hum of laughter and excitement from the girls. “Your mom and I might need to take out a loan just to cover the churros and tickets.”

The girls immediately launched into a flurry of excited chatter, their voices overlapping as they laid out the plans for the amusement park day. Go-karts, laser tag, and an arcade brimming with games that were sure to end in ping-pong balls being thrown around like confetti. Emma’s eyes were wide with uncontainable excitement as she listed off the rides they absolutely had to try—this rollercoaster, that spinning thing that made everyone dizzy. Amelia added in her own recommendations for what they needed to eat, and Bucky couldn’t help but grin at how seriously they took their mission.

They insisted on a chocolate fountain, and Bucky raised an eyebrow, unable to hide the smile tugging at his lips. “Chocolate fountain? Absolutely not. You do realize you’re ten, not fifty-year-old rich ladies at a wedding, right?”

Emma gasped, her eyes wide with mock horror. “Chocolate fountains are for everyone, Dad.”

Amelia nodded sagely, her lips curling up into a knowing grin. “Yeah, they transcend age.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, though the corners of his mouth tugged into a smile despite himself. “Well, I’m still not getting you a chocolate fountain,” he said, shaking his head. “You can have the churros, but chocolate fountains are off-limits.”

Emma pouted, but Amelia quickly moved on to the next part of their plan. Bucky chuckled softly, but something tightened in his chest as he watched them. Time was moving too fast, and it hit him all at once.

As their chatter continued, Bucky cleared his throat. “So, is anyone else coming to this party?” he asked casually, trying not to let the weight of it all show.

The girls rattled off a few names—friends from school, the neighborhood, the park, your family, his family—but then Amelia leaned forward, eyes gleaming with that mischievous look Bucky knew all too well. Alarm bells went off in his mind.

“And Tony,” Emma added, her voice almost too sweet, and Bucky sighed dramatically.

“My boss is not giving you ponies,” Bucky cut in dryly, giving Emma a pointed look.

Emma gasped in mock offense. “What? That’s so unfair! You didn’t even let me finish!”

Bucky crossed his arms and leaned back into the couch, trying not to smile. “No need. The answer’s still no.”

Amelia giggled and nudged her sister. “Told you he’d say that.”

Emma huffed, dramatically slumping back against the couch. “Fine. No ponies. But Tony’s still coming, and you can’t stop him.”

Bucky muttered something under his breath about Stark spoiling them rotten, but his lips twitched upward as he took a slow sip of his beer. The girls, blissfully unaware, continued rattling off names, excitedly planning their party.

“Oh, and then there’s Mom and—”

The word hung in the air a moment too long. His fingers tightened around the cold glass, his jaw instinctively clenching. Emma, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, paused. She exchanged a quick look with her sister, her eyes narrowing slightly as she gauged his reaction.

“And?” he prompted, clearing his throat and keeping his tone casual.

As the twins exchanged that glance, Bucky leaned back into the couch, a slight crease forming between his brows. There was something different in the air now, something he couldn’t quite place—but he wasn’t about to let his guard slip.

He raised an eyebrow, letting the silence linger just a bit longer. “What’s that look?” he asked, his voice casual, though a hint of curiosity crept in.

Emma softened her face into that fake innocence he knew all too well.

There was no immediate cause for concern, but something about the way they were acting didn’t sit right. “Well?” he asked, giving them a moment to reveal whatever angle they were working.

Amelia swirled her straw in her drink, the sound of ice clinking against the cup oddly loud in the still room. “Well…” She dragged the word out, like she was savoring a secret.

Emma tapped her fingers against the blanket, a purposeful rhythm. “It’s someone.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed, a slow ripple of unease creeping in, but he wasn’t about to let it show. “What does that mean?” he asked, his tone calm, though his eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

The twins exchanged another glance—this one longer than the last, but still nothing revealed. Bucky studied them both, waiting. That quiet tension in the air, that shared secret between them… Something told him this wasn’t going to be as simple as just a random guest.

Amelia leaned forward, her voice dripping with syrupy sweetness. “Mom’s… special friend.”

Bucky’s brain screeched to a halt.

Special what now?

His first thought was that they were being dramatic, that it was just some ridiculous new neighbor or maybe one of her coworkers. But as the seconds ticked by, his second thought—that maybe they meant some harmless acquaintance—began to crumble away. The third thought, the one that came with an unshakable knot in his stomach, was that no, these little demons weren’t dragging this out for a harmless coworker.

““No…” He couldn’t help the incredulous tone that slipped out.

Emma’s grin widened, clearly enjoying every second of his internal struggle. “Yep. She’s been seeing someone.”

The floor beneath him tilted.

Not literally—but damn, it sure felt like it.

His jaw locked. The distant hum of the TV, the muted city noise outside, the rhythmic clinking of ice in their drinks—all of it faded into static as one horrifying word echoed in his skull:

Seeing.

His chest tightened, and the air seemed to grow heavier, the world around him suddenly too quiet, too still. He cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice level. “She’s been what?”

Emma nodded, her smile practically glowing with mischief. “Dating.”

Bucky’s stomach dropped. The word hit him like a freight train, slamming into him with enough force to leave him breathless and disoriented. This wasn’t just a casual mention. It wasn’t just something innocuous. This was dating. His hands gripped the edge of the couch, but his palms were suddenly sweaty.

Amelia gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. “Oh my God, do you think she’s in love?”

He choked, barely managing to recover before his beer nearly sloshed onto his sweatpants. His fingers clenched around the bottle like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. In love? His brain short-circuited. The word itself sent a hot, sour feeling through his stomach.

Amelia gasped, her eyes wide with concern. “Dad, are you okay?” She reached over, lightly tapping his back, her voice all sweet innocence.

Emma sat up straighter too, her brows furrowing in mock concern. “Are you choking?”

Bucky couldn’t catch his breath. He raised a hand, trying to wave them off, but his body was still spasming, coughing fitfully.

His thoughts scrambled for a rational explanation. This was probably some misunderstanding. Or a joke. They were messing with him.

Right?

He cleared his throat, forcing his voice to stay calm, cool, unbothered—which, considering the way his pulse was currently trying to break free of his body, was an Olympic-level feat. He could almost hear his heart slamming against his ribcage, a relentless rhythm he couldn’t seem to shake.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he wheezed, trying to compose himself. “Did she… tell you that?”

Amelia swirled her ridiculous neon drink, avoiding his gaze. “No, but he’s always around.”

Bucky’s spine snapped straight.

His head turned so fast he probably gave himself whiplash.

“Define always,” he demanded, trying not to sound completely unhinged, but his face looked like he was about to implode.

Emma sighed dramatically, throwing her hands up like this was the greatest scandal of the century. “Oh, you know. He comes over. A lot. Weekends, Saturday mornings, Friday nights.” 

Amelia nodded. “And he brings her flowers.”

Bucky hated how fast his stomach twisted at that.

Flowers.

Some guy was bringing you flowers?

His jaw ticked. His brain immediately conjured a mental image of some faceless, annoyingly attractive dude standing at your door, all smug, holding out a cheap bouquet—the kind that smelled faintly of plastic and desperation. The guy probably had dimples, the kind that seemed to magically appear when he smiled—like he was born with them. He wore a button-up shirt that looked so effortlessly casual, it might as well have been his second skin, making him seem like he had his life together in a way Bucky never quite managed, despite trying for years. And of course, he probably had a deep, soothing voice that made every word sound like it had been carefully rehearsed.

His grip on the bottle turned white-knuckle.

“That so?” he muttered, voice tight.

Amelia, completely oblivious to his internal crisis, beamed. “Yeah! He’s really nice. Super cute, too.”

Bucky blacked out.

Not literally, but there was a full two-second period where his brain just ceased functioning.

Cute?

The word was a dagger straight to the ego.

No one is cuter than me.

The thought came so fast and so aggressively, he almost said it out loud.

Emma, seeing her opportunity to fully ruin his night, grinned wider. “And Mom really likes him.”

Something in his chest snapped.

His pulse was thundering in his ears. His jaw clenched so tight it ached. His fingers itched to grab his phone and—what? Investigate? Track this guy down? Challenge him to a duel?

Maybe.

No, he was not spiraling.

He was completely fine.

”Wow,” he let out a stiff, forced laugh. “Didn’t know your mom was dating.”

Amelia shrugged. “Well, she is,” she said, all smug and matter-of-fact. Then, like the final blow, she added, “And we already invited him.”

“Come again?” His voice was deceptively calm, but his fingers were digging into his thigh.

Emma beamed. “We. Invited. Him.”

Amelia nodded, all innocence. “He’s gonna be at the party. Are you getting old?”

Bucky had never known true betrayal until this moment.

Some random guy—this mysterious, flower-bringing menace—was going to waltz into the party, be all charming and cute, probably laugh too much at your jokes, maybe put a hand on your lower back in that way that made Bucky want to break things, and—

No.

Absolutely not.

Bucky didn’t know who this guy was.

But he was already his mortal enemy.

Bucky let out a slow breath, forcing himself to relax.

No big deal. It was fine. He was fine.

He casually—very casually—leaned back into the couch, resting an arm along the back of it. His expression? Neutral. His pulse? A goddamn riot.

“So, uh. You know, what’s his, uh, name?” he asked, trying to sound casual, but his voice came out rough, like he was choking on the words.

Amelia and Emma paused, but only for a split second before Emma shrugged. “Eddie.”

Eddie.

Some guy named Eddie was bringing you flowers. Eddie was always around. Eddie was—what? Charming? Funny? Stupidly attractive in some annoyingly effortless way?

“Eddie,” he repeated flatly, rolling the name around like a sour taste in his mouth.

Emma nodded, completely unfazed. “Yep. Eddie.”

Amelia grinned. “He’s nice.”

Nice.

The most meaningless descriptor in existence.

Bucky swallowed down a scoff. Of course, he’s nice. A guy like that had to be nice. Nice guys bring flowers. Nice guys probably say all the right things. Nice guys don’t divorce their wives. Nice guys don’t give in to takeouts and actually cook dinner.

The thought burned in his chest, and he caught himself running a hand over his jaw, trying to hide the way it clenched.

“Yeah, I’m sure he’s real nice,” Bucky muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Nice guy with a nice job and a nice smile, probably working on his perfect, wall-worthy life.”

He shifted on the couch, his jaw tightening as the image of “Eddie”—the perfect, buttoned-up, soccer-dad-with-a-side-part—grew clearer in his mind. He could picture it now: a guy who’d show up with a picture-perfect smile, one of those smiles that probably made your mom swoon. Bucky ran a hand through his hair, his stomach knotting further.

Amelia shot him a look, clearly sensing his frustration. “Dad, you’re overthinking this. I’m pretty sure they’re just friends. Like mom and Uncle Sam or Steve.”

The difference between your friendship with Sam and Steve is that they don’t spend their weekends at your place.

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Right. Just ‘friends.’”

Emma added helpfully, “Yeah, it’s not like he’s her boyfriend or anything. 

Bucky snorted. “If you say so, kiddo. Just tell me one thing—does he have a dog?”

Amelia and Emma blinked at him, confused. “Uh, no…?” Amelia said, glancing at her sister.

Bucky leaned back, almost satisfied. “Well, at least we know he’s not perfect, then.”

Emma threw a pillow at him. “Dad!”

His fingers twitched against his knee.

Just for fun.

Just to check.

He wasn’t spiraling.

But—

His phone was right there.

Just a quick search. Just to see.

Who was this guy? Where did he come from? What did he look like? (Because if he had dimples, Bucky was going to have a serious problem.)

His jaw ticked as he stared at the search bar, debating.

He hadn’t hit enter yet. Hadn’t committed.

But the twins were right there.

Watching him.

He could feel their eyes on him, even if they were trying to pretend they weren’t. They were experts at reading him. Amelia’s little smirk? That was her knowing, looking-at-him-like-he-was-the-silliest-dad-on-the-planet look. And Emma, with her gaze soft but curious, was likely just waiting for the first hint of Bucky’s overprotective freakout to show up.

God, he could feel them waiting for him to break.

He let out a quiet, controlled breath. No. He couldn’t—he wasn’t going to do this.

The thought of being caught going through your friends list made his stomach churn. He wasn’t that guy. He wasn’t the jealous, obsessive, stalker—ish type. That wasn’t him.

He had to stop.

But the name “Eddie” echoed in his mind like a damned chant. He couldn’t shake it. He couldn’t ignore it. It wasn’t just about some guy showing up at the party; it was that nagging feeling, the one that told him maybe he wasn’t enough. Not anymore.

His fingers twitched again, but he forced them to relax.

He was a dad. He had to act like a dad. He had to be normal.

“Guess I’ll finally meet Eddie, then,” he said, his voice deliberately casual.

The girls exchanged an excited glance, clearly pleased with themselves. Amelia nodded, her eyes gleaming. “Yep. Totally.”

Emma’s grin was almost too wide. “You’re gonna love him.”

Bucky just smiled weakly, though inside, everything was twisting. They’d done it—they’d caught him. He wasn’t ready for this. Not at all.

But, damn, he’d have to deal with it. Because if there was one thing he knew, it was that this would be the most difficult thing to let go of. And the hardest thing to admit.

Chapter Text

It was 3:04 p.m. on a sunny Saturday afternoon at Area 53, and you were immediately hit with a wave of sensory overload. The place buzzed with the sounds of kids laughing, the sharp clatter of arcade games, and the high-pitched beeps of machines going off in rapid succession. The floors gleamed beneath your feet, polished to a near-blinding shine, reflecting neon lights from spinning rides and flashing screens. The air was thick with the sticky-sweet scent of cotton candy and popcorn, tinged with just enough synthetic sugar to make your head ache.

The chaos was overwhelming—bright, loud, and far more intense than you’d remembered from the tour. The twins’ birthday party was in full swing. Streamers in bubblegum pink, highlighter yellow, and neon green twisted from every corner, and balloons bobbed lazily along the ceiling. Overhead, a Kidz Bop version of some overplayed pop song blasted through the speakers, the cartoonish voices of overly enthusiastic children drowning out any hope of serenity.

Still, the girls loved it. They were in the thick of it—laughing, dancing, high on sugar and attention. Every time you caught a glimpse of their faces, it reminded you why all the noise, chaos, and overstimulation was worth it.

You scanned the room, grounding yourself in the familiar. Bucky’s family had already claimed one of the corner tables—his sister Becca chatting animatedly with a cluster of parents while her husband bounced their toddler in his lap. The girls’ cousins and classmates were buzzing around, weaving between family friends and neighbors. Your brother had somehow gathered a group of kids around him, mid-story, his arms flailing as he hit the punchline. Your parents stood nearby, deep in conversation with Bucky’s, as if they’d all been born into the same family instead of brought together by circumstance.

It was good. It was supposed to feel good. Comforting, even. Pasting on a polite smile as you greeted a few other parents—faces you knew well, names you sometimes forgot, the ones who filled out every soccer sideline, every school play. 

Steve and Sam were already by the snack table, laughing, almost definitely placing bets on which kid would crash from sugar first. Natasha and Wanda were nearby too, blending seamlessly into the fold of friends-turned-family.

Everyone was here.

Well… almost everyone.

Your phone buzzed just as you were waving to another parent. You didn’t need to look—you already knew who it was.

“Running late. Might be 15. Sorry!”

You huffed under your breath.

Your fingers hovered over the screen for a second before tapping out a quick, overly casual reply.

“No worries. See you soon.”

You slipped your phone into your pocket, but the unease didn’t leave with it.

Instead, that familiar, irritating thought crept back in—the one that had been sitting quietly in the back of your mind ever since you heard the rumor.

Was he late because he was bringing her?

You knew how it sounded. Irrational. Petty. A little pathetic. But that didn’t stop the thought from settling in your chest like something itchy and unwelcome.

You exhaled slowly, trying to shake it off. It didn’t matter. This was the girls’ day. That was what mattered. Their laughter. Their joy. Not the tight coil in your stomach every time Bucky’s name showed up on your screen.

And yet… it mattered anyway.

You pasted on your party-host smile, the one you kept in your back pocket for PTA meetings and holiday concerts, and started greeting a couple of parents whose names you only half-remembered. The party was for the girls. That was your priority. Everything else—whatever weird, confusing thing was going on with you and Bucky—that could wait.

Still, the polite distance between you lately was hard to miss. Ever since you heard he might be seeing Gail, things had shifted. Subtle at first. Just enough to notice. Conversations trimmed at the edges. Smiles that didn’t quite meet the eyes. Like you were both trying too hard not to say the wrong thing.

You straightened, brushing your hands down your shirt like it might smooth away the tension. The air was buzzing—kids squealing, arcade machines beeping, the smell of sugar thick in your nose—but something about it felt muted. Like you were moving through the party at half volume.

You forced yourself back into the flow, doing what needed to be done—checking on the girls, adjusting decorations, wiping down a sticky table. Busy hands kept a busy mind.

You hovered near the snack table, grabbing a napkin you didn’t need just to avoid standing still. You weren’t spiraling. Definitely not. Just… slightly unraveling.

So before your thoughts could settle too long in your chest, you turned sharply toward the nearest parent.

“Oh, you’re so right about the churros here!” you blurted, voice a little too bright. “I think I might’ve eaten, like, three already. What about you? How many churros do you think you’ve consumed in your lifetime? I bet it’s at least twenty, right?”

The mom beside you blinked, clearly caught off guard. She gave a polite laugh, hesitant.

But you weren’t done.

“And these kids—aren’t they just so energetic?” You continued, words tumbling out faster now. “I mean, I swear, they’ve got some kind of built-in sugar battery. I don’t know how they do it. I’ve got my hands full with two, but you—you must have some kind of system. Do you have a system?”

You smiled wide—too wide. You could hear it in your own voice. Feel it in the awkward pause that followed.

The mom’s smile faltered. “Right… So I’m going to leave now,” she said gently, her tone cautious as she took a slow, polite step back. “But nice chatting with you, really.”

She waved, then vanished into the crowd.

You stood frozen for a moment, your grin still plastered on.

What the hell was that?

You hadn’t meant to come off so frantic, but the words had just… spilled. Now, all you were left with was the sting of embarrassment and that creeping tightness in your chest again.

Before you could fully unravel, Natasha and Wanda materialized at your side—because of course they did. Their timing was uncanny.

Natasha’s arms were crossed, her expression already halfway to a diagnosis. “You good?” she asked, casual—but not really.

Wanda touched your arm gently, her brow furrowed with quiet concern. “You seem… tense.”

You let out a sharp exhale, shaking your head. “I just got ghosted in real life,” you muttered, though the words came out flatter than intended.

Nat raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. And whose fault was that?”

Your brows shot up. “Excuse me?”

She gestured with her head toward where the mom had retreated. “Sorry, but what was that back there? You were practically word-vomiting.” Her gaze narrowed. “You looked… rattled.”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly. Too quickly. The smile you followed it with was too tight, too fake—and you knew it.

Needing something—anything—to do, you grabbed the neon-pink soda they’d handed you earlier and took a sip. Immediate regret. It hit your tongue like a punch of liquefied cotton candy and chemical dye—overly sweet, painfully artificial. You gagged, grimaced, and set the cup down on the nearest table like it had personally betrayed you.

“That bad, huh?” Wanda smirked, clearly amused.

You made a face. “It’s like drinking straight syrup. I should’ve just asked for a beer.”

Wanda laughed, shaking her head. “Yeah, pretty sure that’s not on the menu. But keep sipping that, and you’ll be vibrating through the ceiling before Bucky even shows up.”

You give Wanda a pointed look.

She lifts her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Sorry. What’s going on?”

You hesitate, eyes flicking toward the door before you exhale, the words tugging at something tight in your chest. “Nothing. It’s just… he should’ve told me.”

Natasha tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Told you what?”

“I just…” You pause, jaw tightening. “I didn’t think he’d keep something like that from me.” The weight of it settles heavily, curling low in your chest. “I don’t know. It feels stupid. Selfish, even.”

Frustration pushes up quicker than you expect, and the words slip out before you can stop them. “Seriously, Nat? What’s the point of you being married to my ex’s best friend if you’re not going to give me a heads-up when he’s dating someone? I thought we had a pact—a girlhood code or something. You’re breaking the code!”

Natasha blinks, taken aback. “Wait—what?” Her brows draw together. “Bucky’s dating?”

Your eyes narrow, arms crossing instinctively. “Oh, come on. You’re married to Steve, who’s basically his brother. You really expect me to believe you didn’t know?”

But Natasha just blinks, brows drawn, confusion written across her face. “You seriously think I’d keep that from you?” Her voice is light, but there’s real disbelief beneath it. “If I knew, you’d be the first to hear about it. I have no fuc—” She cuts herself off, glancing around quickly and lowering her voice. “I have no freaking clue.”

You let out a long breath, the kind that does nothing to ease the knot tightening in your chest. She’s telling the truth. That much is obvious. And somehow, that only makes you feel worse.

Your eyes flick to Wanda, hoping—stupidly—that maybe she has something useful to say.

But Wanda just lifts her hands, her smile replaced by genuine confusion. “Don’t look at me,” she says with a shrug. “This is news to me too. I didn’t know Bucky was seeing anyone.”

Your stomach sinks, sharp and sudden. You’d been so certain they’d know something. That someone would. That this weird little storm brewing in your chest wasn’t just yours alone to weather.

“Great,” you mutter. It comes out too flat, too small, but they both hear it.

Wanda’s gaze softens. “Maybe it’s just… I don’t know. Maybe he hasn’t told anyone yet?”

Natasha jumps in with a shrug. “Could be. Or maybe it’s not even serious. I mean, we don’t all keep tabs on each other’s dating lives anymore.”

You rub your temples, trying to piece your thoughts back into something rational. But the heaviness lingers. “I just don’t get it. We’re supposed to be co-parenting. We have kids together. Why would he keep something like this from me?” Your voice falters. “It’s not like we’re still…” You trail off, swallowing hard. “We promised to be honest. That was the whole deal. That we’d always put the girls first. That we’d keep each other in the loop.”

Frustration builds, bubbling up before you can filter it. “ And now he’s just—what? Bringing a stranger into their lives without even saying anything? I mean, seriously? I’m the one who did the 3 a.m. feeds, the cracked nipples, the stretch marks, and the colic screams. I breastfed with one arm and held a burp cloth with my teeth. And now I don’t even get a heads-up before someone new gets introduced to their world?” You throw your hands up. “What happened to the circle of trust? I’m not just some afterthought!”

There it is. The real reason this is bothering you. Not just that Bucky might be moving on—but that he didn’t tell you. That after everything you’ve been through, after all the years of knowing each other inside and out, he still felt the need to keep you in the dark.

And that stings more than you expected.

But it’s not like you care who he dates. That’s not the issue. Of course not.

It’s the principle. The lack of communication. The fact that he made a decision that directly affects you—your daughters—without so much as a heads-up. That’s what’s frustrating. You’re co-parents. A team. And teams don’t keep secrets.

That’s all this is.

You don’t care.

You just wish he would’ve told you.

Wanda snorts. “Circle of trust? Really?”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah. It’s a thing, Wanda. Haven’t you seen “Meet the Parents”?”

Wanda gives you a flat look. “What are you, someone’s grandmother? Who still watches that movie?”

You throw your hands up. “I’m not old, I’m just saying. And trust me— circle of trust? It’s sacred.”

“Oh god,” Natasha groans, tilting her head back. “This is exactly why you married Barnes.”

You try to laugh, but the sound falters. The edge of your smile pulls tight, and it sits wrong in your chest—too hollow, too practiced.

Natasha sees it. The soft drop in your expression, the quiet shift behind your eyes.

Her voice changes, the sarcasm slipping away. “You’re hurt. I get it. But maybe this is just something he hasn’t figured out how to say yet. Or maybe he’s avoiding it altogether. Classic Bucky move.”

You cross your arms a little tighter, trying to hold your voice steady. “Sure, maybe. If we were, like, in our twenties and this was a rom-com. But you don’t think it’s weird? That he didn’t even give me a heads-up? He just drops someone new into their lives with zero warning?”

You shake your head, scoffing under your breath. “I’m over here thinking we’re co-parenting like pros, and suddenly there’s a stranger in the mix. It’s like I’ve been quietly demoted to guest star in my own life.” You force out a laugh, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “What’s next? He brings her to Thanksgiving and introduces her as the new ‘bonus mom’?”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying the deflection. “So you’re mad because he didn’t text you?”

You throw your hands up. “Yes, Natasha! A text! Basic common decency. Is that so hard?”

Natasha steps in a little closer now, a smirk forming at the corner of her mouth. “Okay, okay—but you’re not just mad, are you? Maybe you’re… I don’t know, jealous?”

She flicks a glance toward Wanda, who’s already fighting back a smile.

You freeze. “Wh—? Jealous? No! I’m fine with him moving on.” The words come out fast, too defensive. Too polished.

You tack on, “It’s just… It’s like being the person who always shows up first to a party, and then suddenly someone else is already there—sitting in your seat. I’m still a regular here.”

The second you say it, you hear it. The bitterness in your voice. The ache that snuck in beneath the sarcasm. You won’t name it. You don’t need to.

Wanda doesn’t call you out. She just gives you that look—soft, steady, and understanding. “That makes sense,” she says gently. “Even if you’re okay with someone moving on, it doesn’t mean it’s easy to watch it happen. Especially when it affects your kids. You didn’t get a say, and yeah… that stings.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I guess.” You sigh, the weight of it pressing low in your chest. “It just feels off. Like we’ve been nailing the co-parenting thing, and now—suddenly—there’s a third person in the mix. No warning. No heads-up. Just… dropped in.”

Natasha bumps your arm lightly, the smirk returning. “To be fair, it’s Bucky. The man treats open communication like it’s a landmine.”

Wanda laughs, shaking her head. “Seriously.”

“Look,” Natasha continues, her voice softening again. “You’re allowed to be annoyed. But maybe don’t spiral just yet, alright? He’s not exactly a pro at talking about feelings—or handling new stuff without making it awkward.”

Wanda leans in, voice gentler now. “And if there is someone… I don’t think he’s hiding it to hurt you. Bucky’s crazy about you—he always has been. He’d never keep something serious from you on purpose. He respects you too much for that.”

Natasha nods in agreement, her tone firm. “He’ll tell you when he’s ready. The guy’s just slow with his heart, always has been. But he’s not stupid. He knows you matter too much to leave in the dark.”

You swallow thickly, their words hitting a little harder than you expected. The frustration still lingers, but it starts to loosen its grip. “Yeah… Thank you, I guess you’re right. It just threw me off. That’s all.”

Natasha squeezes your shoulder, offering a small smile. “Anytime.” She glances toward the gift table. “Now I should probably go make sure Steve isn’t letting Blake turn that mountain of presents into a personal fort.”

Wanda chuckles. “And I better check on Billy and Tommy before they find where the cake’s hiding and inhale it whole.”

You let out a small laugh and offer a real, if tired, smile. “Thanks, guys.”

Natasha squeezes your arm again. “Always.”

Wanda gives you one last warm look before the two of them disappear into the crowd.

You stand there for a moment, letting the noise of the party wash over you. The laughter, the clatter of game tokens, the shriek of victory from a nearby Skee-Ball lane—it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.

Your eyes scan the room. Steve and Natasha are laughing with Sam, Leila, and their son Caleb. They look settled, content. Like they’ve all found something you haven’t yet. Something is still just out of reach.

There’s a dull pang in your chest, sharp and fleeting. You shake it off.

Not the time.

The air inside the amusement center is thick—too sweet from melted cotton candy and buttered popcorn, but under it, something artificial clings to your skin. Maybe it’s the syrupy taste of that neon-pink soda still lingering on your tongue. Or maybe it’s the pressure in your ribs that’s making it hard to take a full breath.

You grip your paper cup a little too tight before tossing it onto the nearest table, ignoring how your fingers are trembling slightly.

Natasha and Wanda are gone now, off to wrangle their kids, leaving you in the middle of the chaos alone. It should feel like a break.

Instead, it just feels loud.

You check your phone. 3:24 p.m.

Bucky said fifteen minutes.

It’s been longer.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That you don’t care. But your fingers tighten around your phone anyway, your thumb hovering over the screen.

The message he sent still sits there. Neat. Casual. Impersonal.

“Running late. Might be 15. Sorry!”

It sounds like something you’d send a coworker. Not someone who’s helped raise your kids. Not someone who used to kiss your forehead goodnight.

You shove your phone back into your pocket.

It’s fine. You’ve handled everything on your own before. 

You don’t need him here.

A burst of laughter pulls your attention toward the bumper cars. The girls are racing across the room, shrieking with glee, party hats bouncing over their wild hair. Their cheeks are flushed, joy written all over their faces.

That’s what matters.

You repeat it like a mantra. Grip it like a lifeline.

This party is for them. Not for you. Not for Bucky. And definitely not for Gail.

Still, the thought nags at you, sharp and persistent.

Is he late because he’s bringing her?

The idea presses hard into your ribs, unwelcome and impossible to shake. You don’t want to care. You shouldn’t care. And yet—

A sudden shift in movement near the entrance catches your eye. You don’t even mean to look, but your gaze lifts instinctively.

And there he is.

Bucky.

Alone.

Your breath stalls.

You weren’t expecting that. You were so sure he’d show up with her. So sure she’d be there, right beside him, smiling politely, winning over the crowd.

But it’s just him. No Gail. No one.

Is she on her way? Meeting him here?

The thought sends a pulse of something you don’t want to name through your chest—too fast, too warm, too sharp.

He stumbles slightly under the weight of several oversized gift bags, one slipping off his wrist as he adjusts the others in his grip. They’re covered in sparkly princesses, glitter bows, and pastel rainbows. Completely ridiculous. And completely at odds with the serious set of his jaw.

Their voices slice clean through the noise, high and bright, and then they’re off—feet pounding across the floor, party hats bouncing as they barrel toward him.

Amelia jumps into his arms first, her arms flung tightly around his neck. Emma’s not far behind, crashing into his side with a giggle. He catches them both, laughing as he hoists them for a second before carefully lowering them again.

Immediately, they’re tugging at the bags in his hands.

“Hey, hey! Let me at least say hello first!” He chuckles, shifting the weight of the ridiculous, glitter-covered gift bags.

“We’ve been waiting all day, Dad!” Amelia grins, already yanking one out of his grip.

“Yeah, the presents won’t open themselves!” Emma adds, trying to peek into another.

He narrows his eyes playfully. “Uh-huh.”

Before he can tease them more—

He forgets everything.

Because you walk by.

His grip tightens. His chest pulls taut, like an invisible thread just snapped.

For a split second, he thinks you’re looking for him. It’s a reflex—like muscle memory. Your gaze skims the room, and something in him braces for it to find his.

But it doesn’t.

Your head tilts—not toward him. Past him.

A small sting. Sharp. Unreasonable. Immediate.

God, you look good. Too good.

The kind of good that tightens his jaw and makes his stomach knot in ways he’s not proud of.

Those high-waisted jeans that hugged you just right. That black tank top—simple, fitted, low enough to distract, but not enough to call it out. A flannel shirt tied around your waist like an afterthought, like you didn’t even try. And those white sneakers—clean, casual, like you belonged in a glossy ad for hot moms who don’t even realize they’re hot.

Effortless. Completely unfair.

You looked like you didn’t even try—and still managed to knock the breath out of him.

Who the hell were you trying to impress?

Not him. Obviously.

You hadn’t looked at him once. Not even a glance.

And that—that stung more than he wanted to admit.

Eddie.

His jaw tensed, heat curling low in his chest.

What did Eddie get to see that Bucky didn’t anymore? Your smile? Your bad jokes? The way you curled your fingers when you laughed?

And then—

You pull it out of your pocket, glancing at the screen, and for a brief second, a smile tugs at your lips. A small, almost shy smile.

Bucky’s jaw clenches so tight it’s a miracle he doesn’t crack a tooth.

Was that him? Was that Eddie?

Is he here? Is he on the way?

Does he make you and the girls laugh like that all the time now?

His fists curl at his sides, a sharp exhale flaring his nostrils as he forces himself to look away—only to immediately look back, just in time to try to catch Eddie.

But you glance at your phone and laugh.

Jesus Christ.

And, okay, fine—maybe you take your time scrolling through your phone. Maybe you even tilt the screen slightly, just enough for him to wonder if he has your attention. Maybe you smiled at your notification to update your phone for the hundredth time just to see if he’d react.

And when you smile—soft, almost shy—you know he sees.

Knew, because when you finally glance up, Bucky is still staring.

Jaw tight. Eyes dark.

Good.

Served him right.

Bucky barely registers Amelia tugging at his sleeve the first time.

He’s still thinking about that look on your face.

The one he used to be able to draw out of you without trying.

It isn’t until Amelia’s small hand grips his wrist tighter that he finally blinks, dragging his attention back to where it belongs.

His girls.

Arcade.

Balloons.

Birthday.

Right.

That’s why he’s here.

Not to wonder if you’re thinking about someone else when you laugh like that.

Not to hope that maybe—just maybe—you smiled like that for him.

Eddie could wait.

Better yet, Eddie could leave.

With a small grin, Bucky lets Amelia and Emma drag him toward the arcade section, their excitement bubbling over as they fill him in on everything he missed.

“There’s this huge claw machine, but it’s rigged,” Emma informs him seriously, her hand still gripping his.

“We tried, like, ten times, and it didn’t work!” Amelia adds, her voice full of outrage.

Bucky chuckles. “Sounds like a scam.”

“It is!” Amelia huffs. “But Sam got something on his first try, and that’s not fair.”

Bucky smirks. “Uncle Sam probably cheated.”

“That’s what we said!” both girls exclaim, making him laugh.

Emma tugs him toward a row of racing games, eyes gleaming. “Okay, but this one is the best, Dad. You have to play against me.”

“No, me first!” Amelia cuts in, stepping in front of him with her hands on her hips. “I already called it!”

Bucky feigns a dramatic sigh. “Man, you two are really making me work today, huh?”

“Yes,” Emma says immediately, grinning. “That’s what dads are for.”

His heart squeezes at that. Jesus.

“Alright, alright,” he relents, dropping into one of the racing seats.

For a while, the party carries on in a blur of color and noise—bursts of laughter, the clatter of tokens dropping into machines, and the occasional victory yell from across the arcade.

Bucky gets pulled into more games than he can count, even managing to win a stuffed animal for Amelia after she dramatically declared she had “lost all hope.” The triumph is short-lived, though, because Clint strolls by, swipes it from her arms, and taunts, “Finders, keepers!” before being chased down by a furious, now ten-year-old.

At one point, Bucky catches you crouching beside one of the younger kids, helping them tie their shoelaces while nodding along seriously to a long-winded story about their favorite superhero. When you’re done, the little girl loudly announces, “You’re the best grown-up here!” prompting a round of laughter from nearby parents and a genuine smile from you that Bucky feels in his chest.

Meanwhile, Sam and Steve are locked in a way-too-serious air hockey match, surrounded by a crowd of kids who are loudly placing bets with fistfuls of arcade tickets. Blake is running in dizzy circles around Natasha, crashing into tables with a sugar-fueled laugh, while Wanda tries (and fails) to pull Billy and Tommy away from the cotton candy machine before they go in for round three.

And you?

You’re everywhere and nowhere all at once.

One moment, you’re corralling children away from the dessert table; the next, you’re dodging an ambush from your aunt, who is—yet again—trying to set you up with her coworker’s recently divorced nephew.

You smile, you laugh, you handle it all. But slowly, the weight starts to creep in.

The flashing lights blur. The voices blend into a dull roar. Your sneakers ache from pacing, your throat is dry, and when one of the kids bumps into you and spills soda down your sleeve, all you can do is blink at the sticky mess and sigh.

Eventually, Amelia and Emma disappear into a game with their friends, leaving Bucky standing near a row of machines with nothing but time.

That’s when he sees you.

Slipping away.

You weave through the crowd, quiet, unnoticed, making your way toward the lounge area.

Bucky hesitates, scanning for a distraction. A reason to stay where he is. But his feet move anyway.

The lounge area is quieter. Calmer. The hum of the arcade still buzzes faintly in the distance, but here, it’s muffled by cheap carpet and low lighting. A few stray balloons drift lazily across the floor, and the couches look like they’ve already offered refuge to more than one overwhelmed parent.

And then he sees you.

Alone.

You’re slouched back against the cushions, one sneaker kicked off, the other half-dangling from your foot. Your head tilts back, eyes closed, just for a second—like you’re trying to breathe without the weight of the entire party pressing on your chest.

You look… soft. Tired. Beautiful in a way that guts him.

Bucky freezes in the doorway, not sure what to do with the sudden thud in his chest. He hadn’t expected to see you alone, not like this. Not without Eddie.

Where is Eddie? Did he ditch you? Did you ditch him? Or worse—did you ask for space?

Part of him wants to turn around. Give you that space.

The other part—the louder part—moves before he can stop himself.

The sound of his boots against the floor is quieter here. 

“Hey,” Bucky says softly. His voice is low. Measured. Careful.

You jolt upright so fast, you nearly tumble off the couch. One foot slips off the cushion, your knee knocks the coffee table, and for a second it looks like you’re going to eat it—right there next to a half-deflated balloon.

“Jesus—” you mutter, catching yourself just in time, smoothing your shirt like that somehow makes the whole thing look intentional.

Bucky blinks. “You good?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Totally. Just… resting my eyes. Not napping. Definitely not napping.”

You sit up a little straighter, pushing your hair behind your ears like that’ll help you recover your dignity.

“Hey,” you say, more controlled this time—like maybe he didn’t just witness you almost faceplant into a couch.

You blink, clearly not expecting the question. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just a little tired.” You exhale softly, shaking your head. “I think Dan’s mom purposely sent him with extra sugar today. He and Cassie were bouncing off the walls earlier.”

Bucky chuckles, warmth softening his voice. “Tell me about it. I’ve been dragged through every game they’ve found.” His gaze flicks toward the arcade, where the girls are still darting around like mini hurricanes. “Pretty sure they’re plotting their next ambush.”

You laugh—light, effortless—and something shifts in the air. Something Bucky didn’t realize he missed until just now.

A beat.

“Want some company?” he asks, voice a touch rougher.

You hesitate. He sees it—the way your fingers twitch slightly in your lap, the way you glance at the empty space beside you. But then, you shift, just enough.

He takes the invitation, settling in beside you—not too close. But not far.

The quiet between you is soft. Restful.

“So,” you say, breaking the silence, “what’d you get the girls?”

He huffs a laugh, grateful for the pivot. “The usual. Toys, books, clothes. Tried to stick to the approved list, but… I may have snuck in a few surprises.”

You arch a brow. “Surprises?”

Bucky smirks. “I’m the cool dad. It’s part of the job.”

You squint at him. “Define ‘cool.’”

He grins wider, clearly proud of himself. “I got them a karaoke machine.”

Your eyes widen. “You what?”

He shrugs, unapologetic. “They’ve been begging for one.”

“Oh no. That thing stays at your place,” you say immediately, pointing a finger at him like it’s a binding contract.

Bucky laughs, holding up his hands. “Hey, fair enough. But don’t come crying to me when they start belting out Disney ballads over FaceTime.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “Wow, Barnes. Really selling it.”

He shrugs, eyes dropping briefly to the floor. “Hey, I’m not doing too bad.”

Your teasing fades into something gentler. “You’re doing great.”

He stills.

Simple words. But they hit deeper than you probably realize.

“…Thanks,” he murmurs.

Another pause. You shift again, like something’s on the tip of your tongue. The kind of pause that wants to turn into a real conversation.

Maybe now was the moment.

Or maybe it wasn’t.

Still, you go for it.

“So, I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” you begin, your tone cautious.

Bucky turns slightly toward you, curious. “Yeah?”

But before you can get the words out, the lounge door creaks open.

“Mooooom! It’s time to blow out the candles!” Emma’s voice cuts in, her face peeking around the corner, cheeks still smudged with pizza sauce.

You sigh, part amused, part relieved. “Coming, baby!”

As you stand, Bucky meets your eyes with a look that says it all.

Not over. Just… paused.

Bucky stands with a groan, stretching his back dramatically. “Welp, guess it’s time to head back into the war zone.”

You snort. “Bring your armor, soldier. I saw at least two juice boxes explode in the last five minutes.”

He grins, tapping a fist lightly against his chest. “Emotionally prepared. Physically under-caffeinated.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling out of you before you can help it, and Bucky watches it settle across your face like sunlight. For a second, it makes everything else fade—the noise, the mess, the weird tension hanging between you both.

And maybe that’s why, as you turn toward the door, he steps past you for just a second—not to rush, not to lead, but to hold it open.

A simple thing.

But he catches your glance, the flicker of surprise in your eyes.

You tilt your head. “Look at you. Chivalry’s not dead after all.”

He gives a crooked smile. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t,” you tease, brushing past him.

But just as you do, Bucky leans in, low enough that only you can hear him. “You really do look good today.”

Your breath catches—but you don’t stop walking. You don’t have to. He already knows you heard him.

Behind you, Bucky smiles to himself, letting the door swing shut with a soft click as he follows you back into the noise.

Back into the chaos.

But maybe, for a little while longer, it didn’t feel quite so chaotic.

You let yourself be swept back into the heart of the party, where the chaos had settled into a kind of rhythm. The neon glow of the arcade lights pulsed overhead, casting soft flashes of pink, green, and blue over the crowd as the birthday cake was brought out. The flames on the candles danced in the warm air, flickering with anticipation. Kids gathered close, their voices bubbling with excitement, and for a moment—it all felt right.

Bright. Noisy. Uncomplicated.

Bucky stood near the edge of the group, close enough to be part of it, far enough to not draw attention. But you could feel him there, as steady as ever. Watching. Always watching.

The girls squeezed their eyes shut. Amelia’s brow scrunched in fierce concentration, while Emma clutched her hands like she was bargaining with the universe. Amelia caught Bucky’s eye and smiled—small, knowing—while Emma’s glance found you, her grin all mischief and pride.

Then—whoosh.

The candles were gone in a puff of breath, and the crowd erupted into cheers.

You leaned back a little, smiling at the scene as if it belonged to someone else. Laughter, clapping, the chime of arcade bells—it blurred together. But the girls’ joy? That stayed sharp. That was yours.

The present frenzy came next. Wrapping paper flew. Squeals echoed. Blake proudly presented his gift—stuffed animals that were instantly declared the “new favorites”—and was buried under grateful hugs. You caught his eye and mouthed thank you, a soft warmth settling in your chest.

Peter, their babysitter, lingered on the sidelines, snapping pictures. Quiet, steady. Across the room, Sam and Clint were locked in a dramatic retelling of their air hockey match, surrounded by a crowd of kids waving arcade tickets like currency. Steve was still fighting with the claw machine, the kids cheering as if he were wrestling a dragon.

And you?

You floated through it all. Helping. Laughing. Smiling. Dodging Aunt Laura’s matchmaking attempts. Fixing hats, tying shoes, refilling cups. You were everywhere and nowhere, like a balloon tied down just tight enough not to float away.

After the presents, the girls vanished into a game with their friends, and you found yourself leaning against the wall, trying to catch your breath. The hum of the arcade buzzed in your ears, but it all felt a little distant now.

Across the room, Bucky stood by the snack table, casually munching on chips, blending in with the crowd—but not really. 

You swallowed, unsure. You could just stay here. Stay still. Let the moment pass.

But your feet had other plans.

Before you could even finish debating whether you should talk to him, you realized you were already moving—like the decision had already been made in your chest before your brain could catch up.

Bucky looked up just as you reached him. That familiar, quiet smile tugged at his mouth—the one that always felt like it belonged only to you.

“Hey,” you said lightly, though your voice betrayed more than you meant it to. “The girls seem to be having a blast.”

He nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah. It’s a lot of chaos… but they earned it. Can’t believe they’re ten.”

You followed his gaze to where Amelia and Emma were currently plotting a full-scale rebellion with Cassie and Nathaniel. “They look so grown up all of a sudden.”

For a beat, neither of you said anything.

Just the noise of the arcade around you, kids shrieking, tokens clinking, music thumping through the floor.

Then, more softly, almost to yourself, you added, “Feels like yesterday we were still arguing about diaper brands and who had the better burping technique.”

Bucky let out a quiet laugh, the sound tinged with something almost wistful. “Hey, I stand by my shoulder method. Never failed me.”

You smiled despite yourself, the kind of smile that came with memory. Familiar. A little too warm. A little too dangerous.

Another pause settled between you, heavier this time.

It wasn’t just about the girls anymore. Not really.

It was about everything that used to be you.

You turned toward him, just slightly, drawn in without meaning to. “Remember the day they were born?”

This time, when he looked at you, his expression shifted—something softer, something unguarded. For the first time in a while, you saw him as you had all those years ago: just Bucky.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Every second of it. I—I panicked, didn’t I?”

A laugh burst out of you before you could stop it. You covered your mouth, but the memory had already slipped out. “You definitely panicked,” you said, your voice colored with amusement. “You’d think you were the one giving birth, the way you were freaking out. You kept asking if I was sure I was in labor, like I was gonna change my mind halfway there.”

Bucky winced, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. “I just—everything was happening so fast. You looked too calm. I thought you were gonna deliver them yourself in the car.”

“You were the one driving like we had a trunk full of glass. I swear, you were going thirty-five on the freeway.”

His face flushed. “I didn’t wanna hit a bump and cause premature labor!”

“You were going so slow the cops pulled us over,” you said, laughing again. “And you tried to explain it like, ‘Officer, my wife’s in labor, but it’s fine; we’re chill about it.’”

He groaned. “And then you yelled out the window, ‘He’s just scared of the playlist choices!’”

“And you were! You were scrolling through Spotify like the right song was gonna deliver the babies.”

Bucky laughed, that warm, easy sound that used to live in your kitchen and your hallway and your bed. It wrapped around you for a second, soft and familiar.

“Okay, fine. I panicked. Happy?”

You smiled, quieter now. “Yeah. But you were still there. Every second.”

The laughter faded, but the warmth didn’t. It lingered, deeper now—something tender threading through the quiet.

That’s when he said it.

“I wouldn’t change a thing.”

You turned your head sharply toward him, startled by the intensity in his tone.

For a moment, you stood there, suspended in an unspoken understanding. Your chest tightened. It felt like the weight of all the years—the girls, the memories, everything you’d built and broken—was hanging right there between you. Unaddressed. Fragile.

Bucky looked away, his gaze flicking to the floor for the briefest second before finding you again. And when it did, it held. Steady. Intentional.

There was hesitation in him—you knew it well—but this wasn’t the usual kind. This was heavier. Uncharted.

He shifted his stance, fingers tapping a quiet rhythm against the edge of the table.

“So…” he started, voice lower now, quieter, like it cost him something just to get the word out.

You arched a brow, your heart already speeding up. “So…?”

“I, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. Nervous. “I talked to the girls the other day.”

That got your attention.

Your posture straightened instinctively. “Yeah?”

His eyes flicked to the crowd, scanning the room—like he was checking to see if you were really alone before continuing. When his gaze found you again, it was tighter. Sharper. “They told me something.”

There was a beat of silence. The kind that gets under your skin.

“… What’d they say?”

His mouth pulled into a tight, almost smile. “That you’re seeing someone.”

You nearly choked on your drink. “I’m—what?!”

Bucky didn’t even flinch. “Yeah. Didn’t know you were seeing anyone. But, uh, I didn’t realize he was… you know, that present.” He shrugged like it was just a passing observation—like he wasn’t throwing verbal grenades under the guise of casual small talk. “I mean, hey. Your life, your rules. We signed the papers. I’m not judging. Just… kind of a notable detail, don’t you think?”

You blinked. Jaw unhinged. Is he being serious right now?

Bucky straightened, arms crossing over his chest like he’d just stepped into some bad cop routine. His stance screamed: “interrogation mode activated.”

You stared at him. Once. Twice. Thrice. Finally: “…What?”

He tilted his head, slow and suspicious, like you’d just confessed to a crime. “So. Is there something you wanna tell me?”

Your eyes narrowed, and your arms snapped into a defensive fold. “What are you talking about?”

His jaw ticked. “About you seeing someone.”

He didn’t ask. He stated it. Like a fact. Like he’d just read it in a headline.

“I’m—what?” You deadpanned, blinking at him like he’d grown a third eye. “I’m sorry, come again?”

Bucky let out a breathy, humorless laugh, dragging a hand down his face like you were exhausting him. “Really? You’re gonna pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

You narrowed your eyes and crossed your arms, trying to look like the boss in this situation—even though you felt like you were in a highly confusing game of tag. “I’m not playing any games, Bucky. I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Bucky scoffed like this was the least believable thing he’d ever heard. “Right.”

Your face flattened instantly—eyes sharp, mouth a firm line, the kind of deadpan that could stop traffic. You tilted your head just slightly, giving him that look. The one that said: tread carefully.

“Uh, no,” you said, voice cool and razor-sharp. “Try again.”

He sucked in a slow, exaggerated breath, leaning in like he was prepping for war. “I’m just saying… If you’re dating someone, you could’ve told me, right?”

Your mouth dropped open, stunned. “Are you serious right now?”

Bucky gave a slow, solemn nod like he was delivering some great truth. “Dead serious.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh—sharp and humorless. “You think I’m dating someone?”

He didn’t flinch. His expression stayed flat, unreadable. “Aren’t you?”

You blinked. “Are you actually asking me that? Or just assuming and hoping I confirm it?”

He stepped a little closer, eyes narrowing like this was some kind of interrogation. “I’m asking because I need to hear you say it.”

That did it.

You stared at him, the absurdity of it all pressing into your ribs like a loaded spring. “Unbelievable.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me? You’re the one sneaking around, and I’m the unbelievable one?” His voice rose, disbelief bleeding into frustration. “We’re co-parenting, in case you forgot. I should know who’s around our kids.”

“Oh, spare me the noble co-parent act,” you snapped. “Especially coming from you. When you’re the one dating someone.”

Bucky reeled back like you’d slapped him. “I’m what now?”

You threw your hands up. “Gail, Bucky. Gail. Ringing any bells?”

Bucky blinked. “Gail?”

You folded your arms, leveling him with a look so sharp it could slice through steel. “Yeah. Gail. The woman you’ve apparently been seeing and conveniently forgot to mention to me. Ring any bells now?”

He stared at you, mouth opening—then closing again. Like his brain was buffering.

Then he let out a noise that landed somewhere between a scoff and a strangled laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “Are you being serious right now?”

You blinked, incredulous. “Oh, I’m sorry—does this sound ridiculous to you? Because I just spent five minutes being grilled like I cheated on a husband I don’t even have anymore.”

“No! I’m not seeing anyone!” Bucky snapped, voice sharp with frustration. “You’re the one who’s been dating someone! That’s what this is about, right? I just—” He broke off, jaw tight, breath coming fast. “I just want to know how long it’s been going on.”

“I HAVEN’T BEEN DATING ANYONE!” You shouted, hands in the air like a referee calling for a timeout. “I’ve been single for THREE YEARS, Bucky! You’re accusing me of sneaking around when YOU’RE the one with the mysterious love life!”

“Me?” Bucky shot back. “Then explain why Amelia keeps telling me about some guy named Eddie!”

You froze. “Eddie?”

“Yes! Eddie! That’s what she said!” Bucky threw his hands up, exasperated. “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!”

Your brain short-circuited.

Eddie. Eddie?

Your mouth opened, then closed. You racked your brain—coworkers, neighbors, teachers, random Facebook friends—

Then it hit you. Like a freight train of absurdity.

“Wait…” You blinked, voice slowing with realization. “Are you talking about Mr. Eddie?”

Bucky’s posture went rigid. “Oh, so now he’s Mister Eddie?”

You squinted. “The sixty-year-old mailman?!”

You blinked. “…Mailman?”

You nodded slowly, holding in a laugh that was already bubbling up. “Bucky… he delivers our mail. Twice a week. He gave Amelia a sticker once.”

Silence.

Painful, crushing silence.

Bucky stared at you like the floor had just opened beneath him. His mouth parted slightly, then closed again. He looked like a man processing the loss of every ounce of his dignity.

“…Mailman?” He whispered, stunned.

“Yes,” you deadpanned, arms crossed. “I may be lonely, but I draw the line at flirting during postal delivery.”

Bucky let out a groan so deep it sounded like it came from his soul. He dragged a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.”

He held up a finger. “Give me a minute. I need to reevaluate my life.”

You lost it. The laugh burst out of you, sudden and uncontrollable, until you were doubled over. “Oh my god. You thought I was dating Mr. Eddie.”

“I had… compelling intel.”

You raised a hand like you were calling a courtroom objection. “No, no. Let’s rewind—because you’ve been all weird and tense, and now apparently, you’re the one dating some woman named Gail?”

Bucky’s brows furrowed immediately, confusion flashing across his face. “Wait—what?”

You crossed your arms, leveling him with a look. “You heard me. The girls told me you’re seeing someone. Said her name is Gail.”

He blinked. “Gail?” The word came out like it physically hurt him. “What Gail?”

You shrugged, feigning exasperation. “I don’t know, Bucky. That’s your department. You’re the one sneaking around with her.”

His jaw tightened, and he raked a hand through his hair. “I’m not—” He paused, frowning deeper, like he was doing forensic-level math in his head. “Wait. Gail?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Yes, Gail. Blonde? Brunette? Bookstore employee? Nurse? I don’t know, Bucky! Enlighten me.”

He looked like he was staring down a chalkboard full of equations. And then—

His face went blank.

Completely slack.

“Oh my god,” he whispered.

You straightened, heart skipping. “What?! What?!”

Bucky’s head snapped to you so fast you winced. His voice dropped to a hushed panic. “You mean—Gail Gail?”

You blinked. “Who the hell is Gail Gail?!”

He groaned like the soul was leaving his body, dragging both hands down his face. “Gail is seventy. She owns the bakery across the street from me. She gives me me and the girls free muffins because I shovel her sidewalk in the winter.”

You froze.

He looked like he wanted to climb into a garbage bin and roll himself into traffic.

You both just stood there, dumbfounded.

Then Bucky bent at the waist like he needed to physically reset his whole existence. “Kill me. Just kill me now.”

“You thought I was dating the mailman? You gasped, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

“And you thought I was hooking up with a seventy-year-old baker named Gail?!”

You both just stared at each other, stunned, borderline unhinged.

And then—rapid footsteps.

“Okay, okay, stop!” A voice shouted.

You both whipped around just as Amelia and Emma came barreling toward you, out of breath and clearly guilty.

Amelia flung herself between you and Bucky like a human shield. “Enough! This is getting out of control!”

Emma, hands on her hips and fully exasperated, muttered, “This was not supposed to go like this.”

You blinked. “Girls what’s going on?”

They exchanged a look—a look that screamed we messed up—and Amelia bit her lip like she was bracing for impact.

“So, funny story…” she began.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Amelia.”

“Okay!” She threw her hands up. “We may have… made up some stuff to make you two jealous.”

The air dropped like a stone.

You just stared at them. “I’m sorry. You what?”

Emma stepped forward like she was presenting a science fair project. “Well, you two are clearly still in love—”

“—So we just helped push things along,” Amelia added, like she was explaining a group project and not confessing to emotionally manipulating both her parents.

Bucky looked like he was short-circuiting. He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for patience. “Jesus Christ.”

“You—” You pointed at them, stunned. “You started this? You invented Eddie and Gail?”

Emma nodded, far too smug. “Yep.”

Amelia shrugged. “And to be fair… it worked.”

You and Bucky exchanged a look—a silent scream shared between two parents who suddenly understood the chaos of their entire week.

Bucky’s voice dropped into full Dad Mode, sharp and deadly calm. “Unbelievable.”

Amelia rolled her eyes with all the dramatic flair of a teen soap star. “Oh, come on! It’s so obvious you two still love each other.”

Emma threw her hands up. “Yeah! Just get back together already!”

Bucky’s face went cold. “Excuse me?”

You crossed your arms, jaw clenched. “I do not need my children playing matchmaker. That is not your job.”

Amelia shrugged, her tone stubborn but not unkind. “Yeah, but someone had to do something. You two were being… kind of dorks.”

Bucky pointed toward the arcade like it was exile. “Go back to your party. Now.”

“But we’re not even—” Emma started.

“Now!”

His voice cracked like a whip, sharp and final.

You all flinched—your daughters out of guilt, and you… for a whole different reason.

It was the first time you’d seen Bucky like that—commanding, decisive, no trace of the usual soft-spoken dad. And if the situation hadn’t been so utterly ridiculous, you might’ve been a little turned on by it. Hell, you kind of were anyway.

You blinked hard, shaking the thought from your head as the girls scrambled off with matching groans and dramatic eye-rolls.

Emma grabbed Amelia’s arm. “Fine, we tried. Denial’s a river in Egypt, or whatever.”

They stomped off, whispering furiously to each other—undoubtedly arguing over who was the mastermind.

You and Bucky stood frozen, watching them disappear into the noise.

The silence that followed felt way too quiet.

Bucky exhaled, dragging a hand down his face like he could physically wipe away the last five minutes. “They just Parent Trapped us.”

You groaned, pressing your fingers to your temples. “This is exactly why they shouldn’t have phones. Or internet access. Or opinions.”

“Seriously.” His scoff was sharp, but there was something underneath it—something quieter, edged with vulnerability. “If we ever got back together, it wouldn’t be because of some ridiculous scheme they cooked up. That’s not how this works.” He paused, then added, almost under his breath, “But damn… they really went for it.”

You blinked, pulse tripping over itself. His tone was casual—too casual. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like if it wasn’t doing heavy lifting in that sentence. But it was.

And the way it settled between you? Like a match dropped in the middle of a very dry forest.

Your heart stuttered, and heat crept up your neck before you could stop it. You shook the thought loose, tamping it down as fast as it sparked.

Don’t go there. Not now.

Before you could find something—anything—to say, Bucky clapped his hands together once, loud and decisive.

“Alright. I need to hit something before I lose my mind. You in for a round of air hockey?”

You stared at him for a beat, then smirked faintly. “Only if you’re ready to lose.”

He smirked, the teasing glint in his eyes making your stomach twist in that all-too-familiar way. “Oh, sweetheart, I know you’ll lose.”

The words landed heavier than they had any right to. It wasn’t just what he said—it was the way he said it. Confident. Cocky. Like he still knew exactly how to get under your skin.

You scoffed, brushing it off with practiced ease. “You wish. Let’s go.”

It started as a joke. A harmless game to blow off steam.

Then it turned competitive.

Then it turned… intense.

“You’re such a cheater,” Bucky muttered as you scored again, the puck zipping into the goal with a satisfying clang.

You grinned, leaning over the table, smug. “I’m sorry, do you not know how air hockey works?”

His eyes narrowed, but his mouth twitched with a half-smile. “You distracted me.”

“Oh?” You cocked your head, feigning innocence. “How exactly?”

Bucky opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again. He wasn’t going to admit that the way your eyes sparkled when you laughed was messing with his focus. Or that your smirk had completely short-circuited his brain.

“I plead the fifth,” he said flatly, which only made you laugh harder.

You leaned on the edge of the table, chin in hand, pretending to pity him. “If you can’t handle a little competition, Barnes, maybe this game’s too advanced for you.”

His gaze darkened, just a shade. “You are so smug.”

“And you love it,” you shot back—instinct, fast, too fast.

The words hung there.

His smirk froze for a second. Then shifted. Slower. Deeper.

“Yeah?” he said, voice lower now. “Is that what you think?”

You felt it immediately—the change. The air got thicker, the playful energy between you tightening into something else. Something heavier. His eyes didn’t leave yours, and for a moment, it felt like the noise of the party had dulled around you.

Your breath caught.

You looked away first.

“Shut up. It’s still my turn,” you muttered, but your voice was quieter, thinner.

Bucky didn’t press, but you could feel the way he was watching you now. Not the teasing, casual kind of look he gave everyone else. This was different. Sharper. Familiar in a way that made your heart ache.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either. The cheesy Kidz Bop remix of a pop song played in the background, too upbeat and too sweet, clashing hard against the way your pulse was picking up.

You didn’t look at him again—but you felt him. The heat. The weight of whatever still existed between you.

“Still think you’re gonna win?” He asked, his voice almost too casual.

You forced a smile. “It’s not over yet.”

He smirked, eyes still dark, voice still soft. “We’ll see.”

Eventually, the game ended. And the party did, too.

The kids were buzzing with sugar and joy. Parents gathered bags and coats, calling out their goodbyes as laughter echoed and the lights dimmed just slightly.

Bucky drove Emma back to your place while you took Amelia. The ride was quiet in that comforting way—the girls giggling sleepily in the backseats, their voices soft and fading. But your thoughts were louder than the silence, circling around everything that had shifted between you and Bucky. The air still hummed with it.

Later, after the chaos had calmed, teeth brushed, pajamas on, and tired limbs tucked into bed, you found yourself standing in the hallway beside Bucky. The house was quiet now, almost too quiet compared to the buzz of the day.

The girls looked up at you from their pillows, their faces open and curious. They knew something had changed. They always knew.

You knelt down beside them, smoothing your hand over Amelia’s blanket. “Hey, you two,” you said gently, “we need to talk about something.”

Bucky stepped forward, arms folded lightly, his voice steady but kind. “We need you to promise us something, alright?”

Amelia and Emma exchanged a glance. A twin glance. Mischief and meaning.

Emma leaned forward a little. “What kind of something?”

You smiled softly. “Just… that you’ll let us figure things out on our own. That means no setting traps. No secret plans. No pretending we’re dating people we’ve never met.”

Amelia’s cheeks flushed slightly, her mouth twisting into an almost-smile. “We were just trying to help.”

“We know,” Bucky said, crouching beside you now, his tone sincere. “But it’s not your job to fix this. We’re grown-ups. Messy, complicated grown-ups. We need to talk things through in our own time.”

Emma nodded, looking more thoughtful than guilty. “We just want you both to be happy.”

“And we want that too,” you said, brushing a hand through her hair. “But happiness isn’t something you can force. It’s something you grow. One step at a time.”

The twins looked at each other again, quieter this time.

“Okay,” Amelia said at last, her voice small but sure. “We promise.”

You leaned in, pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads. “Thank you, sweethearts. We love you both so much.”

“Goodnight, Mom. Goodnight, Dad!” Emma chirped, throwing her arms around Bucky. Amelia followed suit, hugging you tight, her little arms wrapping around your waist.

You lingered, kissing the tops of their heads again—softer this time. It wasn’t just their promise. It was the trust. The hope. The quiet understanding that some things had to unfold in their own time.

After one final “Goodnight,” you straightened up and slipped out, gently pulling the door closed behind you.

The hallway fell into stillness—not empty, but settled. Like the house had taken a deep breath and exhaled.

You turned and met Bucky’s gaze.

He stood just across from you, arms loose at his sides, his expression unreadable but familiar. There was something in his eyes that had nothing to do with co-parenting. It was deeper than that. He didn’t say anything right away, and neither did you.

The quiet stretched, not awkward—just thick with something neither of you had touched in a long time.

Then, he raised a brow, and the weight between you cracked just a little.

“That was… an eventful night,” you said, your voice lighter now, a nervous laugh slipping out.

Bucky let out a breath of a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. Between your imaginary boyfriend and my scandalous affair with a seventy-year-old baker, I’d say we hit all the major drama beats.”

You snorted. “Oh, absolutely. Very mature of us.”

“I try,” he deadpanned.

You smiled despite yourself. And for a moment—just one—everything felt easy again. Familiar. Like slipping into something that used to fit just right.

He crossed his arms and glanced down the hallway toward the girls’ room. “You know they’re going to be all up in our business now, right?”

You groaned, the memory of their scheming still fresh. “They’re like tiny, emotionally manipulative matchmakers in glitter and unicorn pajamas.”

Bucky chuckled under his breath, but there was a flicker of something behind it—uncertainty, maybe. Hope? “I mean, I’m not saying they’re wrong,” he said, voice deceptively light. “But we should probably get ahead of it before they start planning a vow renewal.”

You turned to face him, narrowing your eyes, amused. “You’re not wrong. We should prep the ‘never meddle in grown-up business’ talk. We make the rules. And if they want any shot at cake for the next five birthdays, they don’t play matchmaker ever again.”

“Harsh,” Bucky said, laughing.

“Necessary,” you shot back.

He glanced one last time down the hall, then pushed off the wall. “Still… makes you wonder.”

Your smile faltered just slightly—but you didn’t let it fall. Instead, you turned toward the kitchen. “Beer?”

Bucky arched a brow. “Depends—what kind of beer are we talking?”

You clinked bottles and dropped them into the couch beside him. The cushions dipped under your weight, familiar in all the right ways—but it still felt different. The beer was smooth and cool. A comfort you didn’t realize you’d missed.

Bucky let out a small laugh, but his expression was distant, thoughtful. Like he was sifting through memories he wasn’t quite ready to let go of.

“Can’t remember the last time we had a night like this.”

Your smile wavered, brushed with something sad. “Me neither.” You traced a bead of condensation down the side of your bottle. “Feels like we’ve been stuck on survival mode. The girls, work, everything. It’s easy to forget we used to be… this.”

He nodded, eyes unfocused. “Remember when Emma wanted to marry Steve?”

You nearly choked on your sip. “God, yes. She made a whole plan. Wanted to move to Brooklyn, change her last name to Rogers, the works.”

Bucky laughed—really laughed—and it wrapped around you like a familiar blanket. “And when we told her he was too old, she cried and said she’d wait for him.”

“She was, what, five?”

“Four,” he corrected, grinning. “Called me a dream ruiner for a week.”

You both laughed, the kind of laugh that came from muscle memory. The kind that lived in the walls of the life you used to have.

His smile faded a little, the weight creeping back in. “Feels like it was just yesterday.”

You nodded. “Time flies.” Then, gently, “But just because things changed doesn’t mean we can’t still have this.”

His gaze flicked to yours, something flickering in it. “What do you mean?”

You hesitated, heartbeat picking up. “I mean… we’re not together anymore. But we can still talk. Laugh. Be friends.”

He studied you carefully, lips twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should smirk or stay serious. “You think we can pull that off? Just friends?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. The answer should’ve been easy. But the way he was looking at you… it didn’t feel like friends. And the way your chest tightened at the thought of him being with someone else sure as hell didn’t either.

Still, you forced a smile. “Guess we’ll have to find out.”

He let that hang there for a second, then clinked his bottle against yours. His fingers brushed yours—barely, but enough. “Guess so.”

You both sat there, the silence comfortable but charged. Something had shifted. The room felt smaller. Closer.

Then Bucky cleared his throat. “Hey… I’ve been thinking about something.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Should I be nervous?”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah. I just… wanted to ask. You’re not seeing anyone, right? I know it’s not my place, but for the girls and all—figured I should know.”

The question caught you off guard. A flutter of nerves danced in your stomach. “No. I’m not.” You paused, then added quickly, “Not that I’m not open to it, I guess. It’s just—hard. People hear ‘mom of two’ and sprint.”

His expression softened. “Yeah. That’s… not easy.”

“What about you?” You asked cautiously. “Are you seeing anyone?”

Bucky laughed, almost embarrassed. “God, no. I can barely manage laundry, let alone a relationship. I’m just trying to, you know… function.”

You smiled, a real one this time. “Fair.”

He tilted his bottle toward yours. “To not dating.”

You clinked again. “Cheers to that.”

You both clinked the bottles together, smiling at each other. The mood was light and playful, a welcome contrast to the more serious conversations you’d had. It felt natural, comfortable—like old times.

But that didn’t change the fact that old times were gone.

The conversation shifted easily into something more familiar. You joked about the party, laughing over how awkward some of the parent small talk had been. You teased Bucky about his alleged “affair” with Gail, and he shot back with a dramatic reenactment of you “blatantly flirting” with Eddie the mailman.

From there, it spiraled.

You both got into a heated—but ridiculous—debate over which Disney movie had the best soundtrack. (Bucky was unreasonably loyal to Tarzan, and you were a Tangled apologist.)

You mocked the horror of the girls’ new playlist obsession (“If I hear that frog song one more time, I’m going to turn the car around”), and Bucky admitted—completely deadpan—that he knew every word to their favorite animated movie musical and had once performed an entire duet with Steve to keep the girls from crying during a thunderstorm.

You nearly dropped your drink laughing. “Please tell me there’s footage.”

He groaned. “There is. Natasha has it. She plays it at parties.”

Then it got quieter, softer. You talked about work. About how exhausting things had been lately, even when they were good. Bucky admitted he missed having someone to come home to who didn’t ask him if he wanted ketchup with his fries.

You told him about Amelia’s weird phase of only eating cereal for dinner and how Emma had recently started asking questions about relationships that made you question every answer you gave.

And through it all, you kept laughing. Not forced laughter, but that real, deep kind—the kind that made your chest feel warm and your eyes sting a little.

But then the laughter started to fade, tapering off into something softer. The space between you didn’t rush to fill with more words—just silence. Comfortable, but charged. Heavy with everything left unsaid.

It was the kind of quiet that made you suddenly aware of how close he was. Of how easy this still felt. Of how dangerous that ease could be.

Your eyes met.

And in that single glance, something shifted. Something old. Something that never really left.

Then—

Bucky’s phone buzzed on the table, sharp and intrusive.

He blinked, startled, like he’d forgotten the world outside this moment existed. His gaze dropped to the screen, and his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“Ah, shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Sorry.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s my mom,” he sighed. “She needs help with the washing machine. I promised I’d fix it before she calls someone else to do it.”

You winced. “You really don’t get a day off, huh?”

Bucky shrugged with a tired smile. “Not when it comes to family. She’ll probably rope me into reorganizing her entire basement while I’m at it.”

You leaned back against the couch, crossing your arms. “You’ve got your hands full.”

His smile softened, something a little deeper flickering behind his eyes. “Yeah. But she’s my mom. I owe her.”

A pause. Not heavy—just real. The kind that comes with shared history. Familiar responsibility.

You raised your bottle and tapped it gently against his. “Alright, superhero. Better get some rest—you’ve got a washing machine to conquer.”

Bucky gave you a mock salute. “You’re lucky I like you. Otherwise, I’d be dragging you with me as backup.”

You laughed. “Yeah, hard pass. You handle the haunted appliances. I’ve got enough chaos of my own.”

He stood, stretching with a low groan before grabbing his jacket off the back of the couch. “I swear that thing’s possessed. It’s got a grudge.”

“Good luck with that exorcism,” you teased, watching him with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, doll.”

You snorted. “Tempting.”

He paused. Not reaching for the doorknob just yet.

You did too.

Bucky shoved his hands in his pockets, looking at you like he wasn’t quite ready to leave. The silence wrapped around you both—not uncomfortable, but charged. Something lingered beneath the surface, fragile and magnetic.

Your fingers hovered near the doorknob but didn’t move. Neither did his.

His voice was low when it came. “Well…”

“Yeah,” you echoed, just as quietly. “It’s late.”

Still, neither of you moved.

You were close. Closer than you realized. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that you could hear the subtle shift in his breathing.

Bucky’s gaze dropped to your hand, then lifted to your face. His voice, when it returned, was rougher. Tighter.

“Hey.”

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He took half a step toward you. “You know I’d still move mountains for you, right?”

The words cracked something open inside you.

You tried to respond, but your throat tightened. So you nodded. Slowly. Quietly.

“I know.”

Bucky’s eyes searched yours like he needed you to really believe it. Like he didn’t just want to say it—he needed you to feel it. His hand brushed against yours. Warm. Gentle.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he said quickly. “I just wanted you to know. If you ever need anything… I’m here. No matter what.”

It was too much. And not enough.

Your chest ached. “I know,” you whispered again—this time, softer. Not just acknowledgment. Something closer to surrender.

He lingered, caught in the gravity between you. Then, slowly, like it physically hurt to do it, he stepped back.

“Goodnight, doll,” he murmured.

Your lips twitched, but the smile barely made it. “Goodnight, Buck. Drive safe.”

“Always.”

And then he turned, walking away.

You stood there, frozen in place, listening as his footsteps faded down the hallway. Each step felt like it echoed through the stillness of the house, until all that remained was silence.

Your hand tightened around the doorknob.

For a moment, you didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

And only when the last trace of him had disappeared from view—only when you were sure he was gone—did you slowly, quietly, close the door.

The soft click of the latch felt louder than it should have.

You leaned your forehead against the door for just a second. Eyes closed. Heart pounding in the space where all the words had been left unsaid.

Then—

A knock.

You froze.

Your heart stuttered, breath catching as you turned. Fingers trembling slightly, you reached for the doorknob again. The weight of the moment hung in the air, heavy and humming.

And when you opened the door—

Bucky stood there.

His eyes met yours—quiet, steady. That crooked smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, familiar and just the tiniest bit smug.

“Did you forget something?” You asked, low and flat, like you weren’t trying to breathe through your pulse.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “This.”

And then he kissed you.

No big speech. No hesitation. Just his lips on yours like it was the most obvious next step. It was slower than you expected, but certain. Like muscle memory.

You froze for half a second. Then moved.

Your fingers curled into the front of his jacket without thinking, anchoring you while your brain scrambled to keep up. The kind of kiss that had no business feeling that familiar, not after everything.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. You were both still catching your breath.

“That’s what I forgot,” he said quietly. No smirk now. Just honesty.

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. You just stood there, letting the moment settle.

Then he stepped back, eyes on you like he didn’t quite want to leave.

“Goodnight, doll.”

He turned and walked off before you could say anything else. You watched until he disappeared down the hall.

Then—and only then—you closed the door. Clicked the lock. Leaned against it.

Your heart was still racing. Not in the romantic, butterflies way. In the “what the hell just happened” way.

A minute passed.

Your phone buzzed.

Bucky:

I meant it.

You stared at it. Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Then:

You:

Me too.

And that was it.

No big declarations.

Just… that.

You stood there for a second. Frozen.

The door was closed. He was gone. The hallway was quiet again, and so was the house.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Your fingers hovered loosely at your side, like they hadn’t caught up to the rest of you. Like they were still holding on to him.

Then—

“Okay…” you muttered to no one, the word barely audible, mostly exhaled. “What the hell just happened?”

Your heart was still pounding, your thoughts a mess. You blinked once. Twice. No answers.

With a quiet huff, you turned and headed for the kitchen, muttering something about needing “a damn drink.”

Upstairs, two small silhouettes ducked down behind the hallway wall like spies caught mid-mission.

Amelia and Emma peered down from their hiding spot at the top of the stairs, eyes wide, mouths slightly open. They’d been spying all night, waiting, watching—and the kiss? That was more than they could’ve hoped for.

“I knew it,” Amelia whispered, barely containing her excitement.

“Shh! She’ll hear you,” Emma hissed, even though her voice practically hummed with delight.

Amelia’s grin widened, her tone dropping conspiratorially. “Told you. It was only a matter of time.”

She leaned closer, eyes darting toward the living room. “Still… I didn’t think it’d happen tonight. I thought we’d have to do way more ‘helping.’”

Emma arched a brow, her smirk pure mischief. “Who says we’re done helping? This is just the beginning. They still need… guidance.”

Amelia rolled her eyes, half amused, half skeptical. “You really think they’ll get married like you said? That’s a lot, Em.”

“They will.” Emma’s voice was confident—steady—but with a soft thread of hope beneath it. “They just needed a little push. The rest will come.”

Amelia let out a breath, a quiet smile tugging at her lips. “You’re more patient than I thought.”

“I’m not patient,” Emma said with a wink. “I’m just strategic.”

Amelia giggled, nudging her sister. “I guess we’ll see.”

Emma held up a hand. “Exactly. We’ll just let them figure it out. And in the meantime… we keep watch.”

They exchanged a victorious high-five, their excitement buzzing just beneath the surface as they tiptoed away down the hall, already plotting their next move.

Because clearly…

There was still a wedding to plan.

And this time, they weren’t leaving anything to chance.